The sun's rays beat down like a blazing hammer. It flattened the growing barley, dried the still green wheat to a premature yellow. The heat had been brutal the past month, each day growing hotter than the last. The summer was still in it's early stages, and it was far too soon for this brittle, punishing weather. Irrigation had become a problem. The stream that flowed past the acres of farmland had slowed to a trickle where once it had rushed. The well in the yard was dropping a level daily.
What they really needed was a rain, Efrain thought, squatting down in the center of the field. He looked up into the brilliant blue of the sky. There wasn't a cloud to be seen, not even a small puff of white, the lone celestial sheep seeking out a herd. He tested the soil with callused, brown fingers. It seemed more sandy than it had, harder, with less loam than it should have. He sighed and leaned back on his haunches. With one hand, he removed the broad-brimmed straw hat that offered scant protection against the sun. His other hand swiped across his forehead, removing the salt and sweat that had gathered there and along the line of his eye-patch. The salt made his skin itch uncomfortably, and he was suddenly aware of his thirst. He ran a finger under the binding leather, resisting the urge to scratch.
There was no one to see the sudden, happy grin. The fields spread out around him like a golden green mantle, tying him to the earth more surely than any force like gravity. For once, he felt a part of things, rooted. As if, even should he leave, some part of him would still be tied to this plot of land and gain nourishment from it, just as the fledgling crops did. Waking before dawn had never appealed to him, yet as a farmer, he did it daily. It was the only moderately cool time as of late anyway, so he begrudged it less than he would otherwise. He went to bed just a couple of hours after the sun, and it felt good to sleep soundly, for once. There were the things he could control, like caring for the few animals around, the chickens and plow horse, Buttercup. There were the things completely beyond his control, like the weather, and the battle to make sure his crops didn't fail from insects or drought. Yet even that was so much better than what had been.
Being a farmer suited him. The stoicism that had seen him through more assassination attempts than he cared to count now served him in the battle of everyday life. It hardly seemed necessary, since no one had stabbed, sliced, flayed, beaten, bitten, shot or poisoned him for the past year. Nobody had torched his two room cabin to the ground because of a grudge. No person in the village scurried from his path like cockroaches in the light of lamp.
Not that he was loved, or even liked by his erstwhile neighbors. Like true rural folk, they regarded strangers with wariness, especially strangers as scarred as Efrain Sower was. Still, it was a far cry from the terror-stricken hatred and fear he was used to. That he still expected in some part to this day, a year later. Their reticence was practically an open-armed welcome, in comparison. He could actually walk the length and breadth of the town without one person attempting to stab him in the back. He could freely buy goods from the mercantile without even one crossbow bolt being shot from the upper window of the neighboring tavern. He could drink in the tavern, while other people were there! Best of all, while the folk around the area were wary, they were not actively malicious, not even the braw lads that thought to pick fights with the new guy.
Well, they would pick fights, but it was taking them a while yet to draw up their courage. The village bruisers seemed like fuzz-faced puppies, barking at that which startled, then running to hide behind the protection of their dam's teeth and experience. When they yipped at him, he got a vague urge to either kick them on their arse or ruffle their hair. Somehow, he didn't think they'd appreciate either action. But it was all sweet and innocent enough. Still, he was careful not to give offense. Even gangling puppies had teeth and used them to kill. For now, though, it was all bark and no bite, and he was no baby rabbit for them to chew on.
He'd found some measure of camaraderie with the older men in the town, the sires of those pups a decade younger than he. Well, they allowed him to listen to the conversations they had in the tavern, talking about area gossip and problems with their livelihoods. The older women seemed to find him a charming rogue, despite the fact that he wasn't even sure what charm was, or what he'd done to become a rogue. The younger women seemed to be either fearful or madly in love, with the latter being far more trouble than the former. As Efrain the farmer, it would be more natural to enjoy the loving attention from girl children nearly half his age, but his former life was not so far gone that he found it comfortable. At any rate, he walked softly around the women, for fear of the M word. As a consensus, the female villagers were of far more concern than the men.
Still, the villagers weren't bad. He snorted, knowing that was faint praise. They were good people, and he'd seen enough to know they were. He could have chosen a town filled with bad people, where he'd be just one of many. Criminals didn't care what their neighbors were doing, unless money was involved. There was an apathy in dens of vice not found in a neighborly town. However, criminals were rarely pleasant to know and be around, which was why it made no sense to take a furlough in such an ugly environment. It was because the villagers of Lindford were good people, far from the main roads and printed broadsheets, that he decided to live in this out of the way place.
Sam hadn't really agreed with Efrain's choice.
He'd complained of the size, at first. There were barely a couple hundred people! And they were poor! How could they even get the finer things shipped to them, with so few to buy or afford them? The answer, as Efrain said, was they didn't. So Sam complained about other things. It was so far away from civilization. That was good, wasn't it, considering, Efrain replied. But I'm going to die from boredom! Sam whined. One of the better options when it came to dying, Efrain pointed out. Besides, it wouldn't be for forever. Just for a little while, until he caught his breath again. Sam pouted, saying how it was possible that he would just molder away the rest of his life in this sink hole, and then where would Sam be?
Finding another partner, Efrain said calmly. After that, Sam sulked a bit, moping around the cabin, nitpicking everything to pieces, before Efrain sent him out to explore the woods. After that, Sam could often be found frolicking in the woods, doing heaven knows what. Efrain really didn't want to know. And he didn't, for a few months. Then, when the fall traders came with their wares, they had stories of some huge beast that scared their horses as they passed through the forest.
That night, Efrain had gone home and given Sam a good talking to. The beast had mysteriously disappeared before the villagers had time to sharpen their scythes and light their torches. But Sam had sulked for a good two weeks, saying that he could never have any fun, and besides, it's not like he hadn't done it miles away. Efrain ignored him. Sam went back to whatever amusements he found in the woods. As long as there were no more stories about huge mythical beasts roaming about, Efrain could pretend that Sam wasn't causing trouble.
Squatting on the ground, the sun's heat coming from above and reflecting from below, he frowned and wondered if Sam was playing around. But Sam wasn't a type to mess about with the weather. Still, the heat could be not entirely natural. Efrain frowned, then stiffened a little when he heard something coming towards him through the brittle stalks of fresh wheat.
A long brown and green patterned body wriggled swiftly through the dirt towards him. It approached too quickly, but Efrain relaxed his muscles. He leveled a look at it, but didn't rise. The snake came to a halt right in front of him, then slid over his boots with a sibilant sigh.
"Couldn't you at least give me the satisfaction of jumping up or screaming?" Sam said, his hissing voice mournful. Efrain stood.
"After the first few hundred times, it gets rather tiring." He said. "I wish you wouldn't use me as some kind of entertainment."
"There's nothing else around here." Sam said absently. It was a refrain they'd both heard too often in the past year. Efrain sheathed the knife he'd drawn when he first heard the rustling. Sam looked at the motion. There would have been a smile on his face, if he weren't a snake.
"Ha! I did get you!" He squirmed in the dust happily. Efrain rolled his eyes.
"You're lucky I didn't throw it at you and pin you right against the dirt. Stop it with the games already. I don't want to carve pieces off you just because I don't know."
"Oh please, like you could harm me." Sam dismissed Efrain's concern. "More importantly, should you be carrying your daggers when you're out in the field? If someone noticed, then there'd be more questions than you'd want to answer." He wriggled up Efrain's leg.
"Stop that. It tickles." Efrain held out his arm, and Sam draped over it, curling his long sinuous body until it was covered from hand to shoulder. He even wrapped around Efrain's neck a couple of times.
"And who, exactly, would be out here watching me?" He asked, as he set his hat on his head and made toward the cabin across the great expanse of the fields. Sam adjusted his coils, the reptile equivalent of a shrug.
"It's the principle of the thing." He lisped. But Efrain wasn't listening. He was lost in thought. After a few minutes of companionable silence, he spoke in distracted tones.
"It's been pretty dry around here lately, hasn't it?" He said. The snake hissed agreement. "Keeps up much longer, there might be a fire in the woods, or the fields."
"This shape likes the heat, but not that much heat." Sam's tongue flickered out, smelling the unmoving air. "In the hills like this... it's unnatural." He paused, saying with some delicacy, "Even the Breath is still." Efrain's expression didn't change in the slightest. He merely nodded.
"I wonder." He opened the door to his neat wooden cabin. The interior was uncluttered. There was a small kitchen table, built of raw pine, with two matching, roughly made chairs. The pallet was in the one other room. The drawers of a crudely cobbled dresser held the entirety of Efrain's wardrobe. The kitchen had an iron pot-bellied cooking stove that took up the brick corner. It served to both cook the food and heat the cabin. Edible roots and pans depended from strings attached to the wooden beams that held up the thatching. There were two doors, and two windows. When Efrain had bought the cabin, there'd only been one of each, but he knew better than to live in a place with a limited number of exits. There also had not been a tunnel running underground to a place some few hundred feet away in a stand of trees. The tunnel was also a good storage area. It wasn't visible. Of course, the boards covered it completely, and his bed covered that.
He wasn't really expecting trouble. But it was better to be prepared, just in case.
He stepped inside the cabin, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It may have been darker, but it certainly wasn't cooler.
"Perhaps you should go have words with the locals." Sam suggested as Efrain took off his hat. "So will I."
"Is that wise?" Efrain raised an eyebrow. The snake huffed in annoyance and slid free from his perch to the ground. "It is their territory, you know. They might become a little... territorial."
"Foolish human." Sam sighed. "Ooh, the wood of the floor is cooler. It feels good." He arranged himself into a coil, then stared at his partner. "I went and introduced myself to them from the very beginning. As long as I don't take anyone from them, they couldn't care less about my presence here." The tip of his tail twitched. "The kjell are self-centered that way."
"Hm." Efrain washed his hands in the ewer full of water on the table, then scrubbed them through his sweat-soaked hair. Absently, he fingered the streak of white above his right temple. He soaked a kitchen cloth in the water and laid it across the back of his neck. It helped with the heat, but only a little. "Somehow I doubt that. This is their province. They will undoubtedly know more than we foolish humans do, but they might not take kindly to someone pointing the obvious out to them."
Water dripped on the floor. Sam moved to avoid it, then swarmed up a wall to a windowsill.
"Either way, I can certainly handle those kjell." The snake dropped from view. Efrain sighed. Kjell or not, Sam was probably underestimating the local inder. Despite the small size of the village, belief could not be measured by numbers alone. No matter what Sam claimed, kjell were no less dangerous than their more powerful counterparts. Efrain could usually scent out what kind of inder claimed it. The Breath played a large role in that scent. On the southern continent, the Breath was called zephyrs. Among the wandering tribes of the Gitano, they were called the Dovev, or whisper-kin. Here, among the north folk, the Hakon, they were the Breath, small winds made out of the millions of possibilities, the whispers of things that might some day become worthy of worship. That might bless the people who worship them. Might become inder.
In the tiny village of Linford, the Breath was restful. It was calm, stirring only enough to create breezes. That meant all the niches the villagers needed were filled by the kjell. It meant their followers were content. There was no need for another inder to rise, to fill some place lacking belief. If there had been room for another inder to rise, then the Breath would be more violent, battling against it's million selves until one from that multitude rose and became a new kjell. But many of the kjell in isolated places like this had been around for hundreds of years, the worship of them built into the traditions of the village.
It was said, in towns less fortunate where inder were violently removed, the Breath, in it's fury of self-immolation, created huge funnels of wind capable of ripping apart stone. It was said. No one could really say they'd seen a wind funnel for certain. After all, for something like that to happen, it would have to be something huge and sudden. Like the death of a shemal.
Shemal were gods of power. Where the kjell had followers that numbered in the hundreds, shemal had followers that numbered in the tens of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. They had powers that kjell could only dream of. And when a shemal faded away, no longer supported by it's followers, a kjell either rose to take it's place and preserved the balance, or several kjell portioned out the power between them. That was how the world was supposed to work. That's how the inder kept faith with their humans, with the forces of nature.
Things didn't always go the way they were supposed to. Efrain found it difficult to hold onto ideals of power structures and keeping faith when the world and it's supposed almighty beings were constantly changing. An inder that rose yesterday could be gone tomorrow, and you had to find a new one to believe in. He, more than most, knew that the inder, while ageless, were not immortal. He knew that, while powerful, the inder were not omniscient. How could they be, when they were shaped and molded by the belief of the people who worshiped them? So, in a world steeped full of almighty beings brought forth and fed with faith, Efrain was faithless.
That was why as the sun began to sink, Efrain doffed his wide-brimmed traveling hat and went to the barn to bridle the plow-horse, Buttercup. Buttercup was a good horse. Placid and hard-working, he was a dappled gray and black maned. He was handsome, in an older way, and larger than any horse Efrain had ever owned before. Most importantly, he got along with Sam. Well, by getting along Efrain meant Buttercup ignored Sam, and Sam ignored him. Most horses shied away from Sam as though he were a demon. Close enough, in Efrain's opinion.
He'd reach the village in the evening, just in time for the tavern to be filled with villagers. Then he'd listen to their gossip, and hear if they had prayed to their kjell for rain – and learn if their kjell were still around to listen to those prayers. Because this drought felt like the work of inder, not nature. And as gossip about everything was practically a requirement of being a villager, Efrain thought he wouldn't have to search hard for the information he needed . It was one of the easiest parts of his job – no, former occupation. Now he was just a plain, simple farmer.
He didn't even believe that when he said it. How could he expect the villagers to take him at face value? They were right, after all, and he wasn't that good at lying.
* * *
The village was quieter than it should have been. Instead of the women gathered around the well gathering the evening water, it was their daughters. Instead of the men chatting in groups around the square, it was their sons. Most were too young yet to be part of the council of the village. The lack of adults didn't particularly worry Efrain, but it did tell him that something more important than a drought had happened. He rode towards the tavern, whose windows were already lit with firelight and lamps. It wouldn't be an official town meeting, then. Good. Then it wouldn't be hard to hear the gossip, even if they distrusted him.
He dismounted and tied Buttercup to the hitching post in front of the tavern. They had a stable yard in the back, but Efrain was not going to stay the entire night. The crowd through the open doors turned to look at him when he strode inside. There was a sudden tension, then a relaxation when they saw who it was. Efrain, ever sensitive to the atmosphere of a room, didn't allow himself to pause. So, there was a threat, but it wasn't him. That was good to know.
He went to the bar. There were three kegs tapped on the bar, and an empty one set on the floor. It had been busy for at least an hour, and probably would continue to stay busy for a while. The tavern keeper shoved a crate of mugs at his son to take to the back for cleaning, then shouted for people to make way as his wife bustled through with a tray of food. There had not even been time for dinner, if people were eating here. And it wasn't just the farmers, loggers, and carpenters that were regulars. There was the mayor, and the tanner, and the mercantile owner. The baker and his wife were in a corner talking with the weaver and her husband the cobbler. Most of the important figures in town were crammed into the tavern's front rooms.
Efrain wondered if it was time for him to start learning the names of the people around him. He hadn't bothered, before. After all, he just bought things from them. It wasn't like he was going to stay. But it had already been a year, and people might take it amiss if he could only address them by what they did, rather than their actual name.
He caught the tavern-keeper's eye. "Ale, please." He nodded to the keg he wanted, and slid a coin onto the surface of the bar. The tavern-keeper he knew, a blunt fellow named Geordie who, if he wasn't mistaken, had been a soldier at one point in time. For who, Efrain had never asked, just like Geordie had never wondered how Efrain had lost his eye. Of course, Efrain had a different story for every occasion. It's just that old soldiers knew better than to ask.
Even though Efrain had never been a soldier.
Geordie filled a mug with a sweeter amber ale. As it slid into Efrain's palm, he raised a brow and cocked his head.
"What's all this?" He indicated the crowd. Geordie shrugged.
"News from a neighboring village." He grunted, hefting another carton of washed pottery mugs. He whipped out a polishing rag and began to give them a thorough drying. "Red Oak Falls has been burnt to the ground by bandits."